Father to the Fatherless

It must be the summer of sappy movies for me or something, because WALL·E was not the first major tearjerker I watched this summer. Several weeks ago I sat down with then-roommates Amanda and Whitney to watch Martian Child, and much like WALL·E, I was pleasantly surprised by its depth-- a touching story about the adoption of previously abused little boy who claimed to be a Martian by a fun, affectionate single man who happened to be a sci-fi writer. (As it turns out, it was based on a largely true novel, which I'm reading right now-- Martian Child, by David Gerrold. While some plot details are different, many specific happenings in the movie are based directly on the book, with the one major character difference being that the movie makes no implication that David is gay.)

(SPOILER ALERT!)
In the film, the last scene is the one that really made me bawl. Dennis climbs onto the roof of this observatory/science museum, claiming a spacecraft from Mars is about to take him home, that he must say goodbye to daddy David and his earth life forever. Dennis, the little boy, has a lot of issues-- his short little life has been traumatic enough to cause a truckload of damage. In particular, bonding is difficult and scary for him, so it's understandable that he didn't believe he could actually finally have a family that would last.

During the very intense roof scene, David addresses Dennis's fears in a manner just dripping with the kind of love Dennis's heart longs for, strikingly similar how God might speak of his adopting us. In response to Dennis's Martian story:
You're a great human, Dennis, that's the funny part. And I just wanted you to feel like you belong to me. I think that's what you want, underneath all this. I think you really want to belong to someone. I wish we could have more time together. I want to prove to you that not all parents disappear forever.

And a bit later:
Whoever let you go, those were the stupidest beings in the universe. I mean, they were so dumb they couldn't even see what was right in front of them. How could they not see how extraordinary you are? How big your heart is? I'm not even that smart, and I can see it––it's so obvious. I mean, you're the easiest kid in the world to love. Well, to me you are. You know what I think? I think you love me too. Like you're just filled with it. Think it's just waiting to burst out of you. Dennis, you're my son. You're my home. Forever. And I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever leave you.

(I have the whole scene's dialog typed on my computer-- don't even ask how long it took.)

I've been talking with a friend a lot lately about our similar family backgrounds, and no matter how many times I repeat this scene in my head, I don't entirely get what to do with it. On the one hand, I cried my eyes out. Here was this story about the father we were all supposed to have but didn't. It resonates with me in a way I can't put into words. David read Dennis-- he knew what he needed-- something my friend and I also feel we needed and need but never received-- and likely never will-- from our fathers. There's something magical and beautiful and painful about having your heart read like that.

It also happened to be the story of a different Father that is good to us. But anyone with Father issues will tell you it's not that simple. It's not as easy as saying "God loves me," or "I love him," or "I belong to someone." As quickly as we are moved by God's response to the desires of our hearts, we pull back with anxiety and bitterness, asking questions like Dennis. Why? Why? Why? I'm discovering all the theological ammo you can find to shoot down the feelings of abandonment and desperation doesn't do the trick. I once hoped that acknowledging the problem solved it at least 75%. If I recognize I don't believe God really loves me, I'm almost believing it, right? Shouldn't it at least get easier? But I'm not sure it does. And I'm not sure it will. The most frustrating part being, the longer it takes, the more I question that love-- I mean, if he has power to fix everything-- or even a few things-- right now, why doesn't he? If there are specific things that have happened to us that make it hard to accept God's love, and if that breaks God's heart, why the hell doesn't he just do something? Something immediate and tangible, as real to me as Jesus's resurrection must have been to those first disciples.

Why is there a gap between the already and the not yet of his kingdom? And if he wants to come dwell with us in a remade world someday, why can't he be with me physically now? My theological answer to these questions is, "He wants to transform humanity from the inside out-- he wants to use us to do his work because he's crazy like that! The answer to these problems is the Church!" But my real-life answer? The Church doesn't do it's job. People get forgotten. Pain still happens. Healing seems far-off. Judgment is ever-delayed. The kingdom sounds far-fetched. And then I sound like Bart Ehrman... But really. Really. Why do we have to wait for things to change? When will things be made right? And how do we process the love of a God that simultaneously offers us the true fairytale we've always wanted and tells us we have to wait forever for it to come true?

I feel a story like Martian Child. I feel its truth; I feel my need for what it points to. But how to actually experience that remains a mystery most days. And why God doesn't make it an easier puzzle to solve seems forever beyond my grasp.